I've edited my outline for this story to reflect my current plans for the plot. Based on that, I'm estimating 18 chapters total and around 100,000 words. Of course I always underestimate, so.

No one had visited Dean in two days.

The first had been a fluke – it was unusual for him to receive no visitors, but not unheard of. The vagaries of chance meant that some days, no one came to Unburden themselves, and other days so many came that they lined up on the road outside his hut and Dean scarce had time to sleep. That night, a light snow began to fall, and by the next day a half foot of snow covered the ground. A thin drift made a half-moon around the entrance to Dean's hovel, blown in by the wind through his empty doorway, sifting through the cracks between the boards. Harsh winters were, in some ways, a reprieve for Dean. They dampened the rank smell, fewer visitors came to see him, he had a ready supply of water, and snow around his abode provided insulation from the cold. However, it was not far enough into the season for those benefits to accrue, so instead Dean had the worst combination of all: no water, no food, and cold so biting that the tips of his fingers were blue and numb.

Maybe, if he were lucky, he'd die before anyone came to Unburden themselves.

The thought had no sooner struck him than he heard the crunch-crunch-crunch of booted feet striding through soft-layered snow. Dean didn't move. If it was a stranger passing down the Free Way, they'd walk by. Dean wasn't sure which he'd prefer – if they were there to see him, or if they were not. Folded in on himself to preserve warmth, knees tucked against his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, icy hands tucked between his thighs, face resting on the crevice formed by his knees, eyes fixed on the road outside, Dean waited.

The blue-eyed stranger – Castiel – came into view, approached the doorway and stopped. He was bundled against the cold; a thick, knobby, ill-made purple scarf was wrapped around his neck, a clashing green hat on his head, and a coat and mittens and boots protected torso and extremities. Their eyes met. Castiel's narrowed, his nose wrinkled, and without a word, he turned and left. If he weren't so thirsty, if the cold hadn't frozen the moisture out of him, Dean would have cried. Rejected wordlessly by the only person who had shown him kindness in so, so long! He'd thought himself beyond such pain, but apparently not. Some desperate part of him clung to the hope that someone might care enough to help him, had briefly clung to the hope that Castiel might be that person. As the sound of Castiel walking faded into the distance, that hope died, and Dean supposed forlornly that, once again, all hope was dead. He hoped it was. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his empty stomach, Dean fought against the tears that burned in his eyes. Optimism was awful. Burying himself in his mind, pushing away physical and mental anguish, Dean explored his thoughts for every shred of desire and expunged it, like searching a home and blowing out the candles one by one until nothing but darkness remained.

"It's dangerous to sleep in this weather," rumbled a low voice. Starting, Dean's eyes flew open and he blinked against watery daylight that burned his eyes. He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep. Bleary-eyed, he looked up but all he could make out was a black shape silhouetted against the sky.

" 'm sorry," Dean mumbled. " 'an I help you?" He blinked, and the man was before him, the man was touching him. Startled, alarmed, terrified of what thoughts might spill over from his mind to the man's while Dean's self-control was frayed, he scrambled away. There wasn't enough space in the shack for Dean to actually escape, but the figure accepted Dean's desire, dropped his hands, and didn't pursue him.

"You were…gone…for a few seconds and I was worried," said the stranger. "Does no one care that you might freeze to death?"

Not a stranger. It was Castiel. Castiel had returned. Dean had no words; he stared at the apparition before him, agog and dazed. Could it be another hallucination? Saints knew Dean had hallucinated succor time and time again, but the delusions always faded with a fresh infusion of demon's blood. It had only been a week since Lady Sands' last visit. Dean had never suffered visions so soon after replenishing himself, but perhaps something had changed this time, or something had gone awry, or Lady Sands had found some new means of tormenting him, or—

"Sin Eater?" asked Castiel.

"What?" Dean started again. "I'm sorry."

"No," Castiel snapped. Dean huddled further into his corner, anticipating a blow to accompany the harsh word. "You owe me no apologies. You have done nothing wrong. It is for the people who have reduced you to this to apologize – to me, to you, to all right-thinking people everywhere. You deserve…" Castiel shook his head, mouth compressed in a tight line. "I should not have touched you without permission."

"It doesn't matter," muttered Dean.

This is a hallucination. This is a fantasy. Dammit, why won't you leave me alone?

"It does," Castiel replied, unequivocal, angry. Dean flinched. "My sense is that the people of Lawrence have taken from you without remorse – taken your dignity, your livelihood, your respectability and self-respect. They have taken and taken and taken, until you felt you deserved to be taken from, until you felt it was your duty to give that which has been stolen from you, your duty to accept deprivation and abuse at their hands. It is not your duty. I've traveled the world and I've never seen a Sin Eater treated as you are. I refuse to be like and yet I intruded on your personal space uninvited. I'm sorry, Sin Eater. It was wrong of me."

There's absolutely no way this is real. It can't be. No one could believe such drivel about me. Everyone in Lawrence knows that I deserve precisely how I've been treated. Many believe, accurately, that I should be treated worse yet. I am tainted, twisted, broken, unclean.

My hallucinations often take on the appearance of people I know.

Many have spoken what they claimed was sense, words I knew to be untrue as I know Castiel's words to be untrue.

"May I touch you, Sin Eater?"

But all knew my name. All used personal information to sharpen their knives and dig deeper into my heart. All planted barbs that stung my mind and my flesh. Regardless of how kind their words appeared on the surface, all sought ultimately to hurt me.

"Why?" asked Dean.

Phantasms can't touch me. Even when the symptoms have been most grave my visions have coaxed and taunted but I've never manifest the illusion of touch.

I don't feel sick.

"I would like to help you, if I may," Castiel explained. He gestured toward a bundle of things sitting beside the door that Dean hadn't noticed. "I've brought things – a new bucket for you, some clothing, some food. It's not much, but—" He broke off as Dean lunged across the room, knocking his wobbly table aside in his haste. His joints locked, refused to unbend, as hours of cold inactivity took their toll, and he sprawled and groaned, fingers yet fumbling forward, reaching for the things Castiel claimed to have brought. "Sin Eater!" Castiel reached for him. Dean saw the movement as through a cracked lens, disjointed and ghostly and most definitely hallucinatory. The hand looked eerily skeletal in the dimming winter light. Dean couldn't bear to think what might happen if it touched him.

"Stop," he croaked.

Castiel froze.

My hallucinations have never heeded me. They've have never obeyed my wishes. They take cruel delight in ignoring my pleas, tormenting me as I torment the people of Lawrence torment me, as Lady Sands torments me, as I torment myself

"What were you trying to accomplish?" asked Castiel. "May I help?" There were so many emotions overlaying his voice that Dean couldn't interpret them all. Dean didn't answer. He needed proof that Castiel was real, that the things Castiel had brought were real, and though he couldn't explain how or why, he knew that the difference between touching those things himself and Castiel handing them to him was the difference between sanity and lunacy. Straining, reaching, for once Dean was thankful for the confinement of his cramped quarters ensuring that nothing was far out of reach. His fingers brushed wood and felt nothing.

It was a hallucination after all.

With a broken cry straight from his broken soul, Dean knocked the non-existent bucket aside. It tumbled over, contents spilling out. An apple rolled across the floor, a blanket fell across Dean's arm, a faint smell he couldn't identify but that wasn't rot, wasn't feces, wasn't urine, wasn't scum, struck his nose, and the fight went of Dean. Tears filled his eyes.

"Sin Eater…" Castiel said sadly. "Please…"

"It's real," whispered Dean. A hoarse sob burbled in his throat. "It's all real. You're real."

"Yes," Castiel said, squatting beside Dean and gathering up the fallen gifts carefully. "I'm real, Sin Eater. I'd like to help you, if you'll permit me to do so. May I touch you?"

"Dean," Dean breathed. Castiel blinked at him uncertainly. "My name. My name is Dean. And…and…please…"

Dean literally could not remember the last time anyone had touched him aside from to take his hands for the Unburdening or to strike a blow because he'd displeased them. The prospect of Castiel doing so terrified him. Cowering, Dean steeled himself.

Don't touch me – don't touch me – no, no, no—

But Dean didn't ask Castiel to stop.

Gently, slowly, telegraphing his movements, Castiel reached out and laid a hand on Dean's arm. Dean cringed. He had to protect himself, he had to curl away.

This isn't real. That isn't warm. That isn't touch. Even if it is real, it's only a prelude of what is to come. When he realizes how repulsive I am, he'll rebuke me – strike me – he'll destroy me. It'll be so easy for him now that I've let him in.

Castiel didn't move away. He didn't rebuke Dean. He didn't raise a fist in anger.

His blue eyes gathered the light, his eyes narrowed, the corners crinkled, deep lines formed on his cheeks, and he smiled.

Dean shattered. With a wail, he threw himself away, rolled over the floor, struck the far wall of his hovel so forcibly that a board was knocked loose and snow dribbled on to his head, melted into his hair. Unable to find the strength, the cognizance, to rise, Dean scrambled across the floor, curled in on himself in a tight ball on his side on the floor and sobbed against his knees.

This isn't real. Things like this don't happen to me. This isn't real. Nobody touches me. This isn't real. Nobody smiles at me. This isn't real. He isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real. Thisisnotrealthisisnotrealthisisnotrealthisisnot—

An arm wrapped around him, a warm body lined up with his, and a gorgeous, deep voice whispered salvation in Dean's ear.

"I'm real, Dean. My name is Castiel, and I'm really, truly here, and I really, truly will help you." The words muddled and blurred, hardly distinguishable over Dean's choked, ragged cries, but Castiel said them again and again, repeatedly them until Dean could have spoken along with him if only his throat wasn't destroyed, repeated them until every time Castiel said real the solidness of the word reverberated through Dean's brain. He couldn't have said when his tears subsided. His body was wracked by cold, riven by tremors, paralyzed by the thoughts that whispered that this might yet all be a lie, but slowly Castiel's promise, repeated like a prayer, grounded Dean, brought him back to himself.

If Dean moved, the illusion would shatter.

"Dean?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply but his lips were gummy, his tongue parched, and no sound came out. Instead, Dean reached out tentatively and set a shaking hand on Castiel's jacket. It felt real. He had feeling back in his fingers, warmth returned by Castiel's intimate embrace.

He touched me. He held me. I am filthy, soiled, disgusting. He'll have to burn that jacket after this.

"When was the last time you had anything to eat or drink?" Castiel's voice broke through his self-condemnation like salvation.

If only he could stay forever.

This is the nicest hallucination I've ever had. Maybe I'll get lucky and from now on they'll all be like this.

Slim chance of that.

"Dunno." Dean's voice cracked. He'd managed to break the ice in his bowl into chips that he'd sucked on until they melted and chilled him through, but that meager supply had run out and there'd been no one to bring him more. He'd scraped up a little of the snow that drifted through his doorway, but when he'd melted it and tried to drink it, it had been more dirt than water.

"Days."

Castiel shuddered and, skin-to-skin, Dean could feel Castiel's horror, his disgust, his worry, like the scrape of sharp nails on tender skin. Dean tried to pull away, to relieve Castiel of Dean's revolting touch, but Castiel's arm stiffened, tightened, pressed their bodies closer together.

"I don't understand," Dean whispered.

"It sickens me that you are treated this way," breathed Castiel.

"You don't know me," said Dean harshly, but he was too weak – physically, mentally – to push Castiel away. Warmth and contact felt so nice. Going without it when Castiel left would be even worse. Pushing at Castiel's mind, Dean picked up traces of his surface thoughts, confirming what Castiel had said. Castiel wasn't disgusted with Dean. He was disgusted with the people of Lawrence. "Who are you?"

"With your permission, here's what I would like to do," Castiel said as if Dean hadn't spoken. "I've brought blankets, warm clothing, food, a razor, a new privy bucket. I'll fetch water, for you to drink, for you to clean yourself, for you to wash the waste from your home, and give you privacy to change. If you'd like my help with any of these tasks, I am at your disposal. Is there anything else you'd like to ease the burdens you've shouldered?"

"Why are you doing this? What do you want?" Dean protested.

"I'm sorry I've aroused your suspicions," said Castiel with a sigh. "If you'd prefer I not act on your behalf, I'll stop."

"No!"

Yes, you have to stop. I cannot come to expect this. I cannot come to rely on this. I cannot come to want this. I cannot come to hope for this.

I cannot have this.

I cannot deserve this.

Castiel moved away, and Dean couldn't repress a whimper, wondering if he'd spoken his reservations aloud or if Castiel had telepathically sensed them. Castiel made a soothing sound, though, removed his jacket, hat and scarf and wrapped them around Dean. Castiel's body heat suffused the garments, and Dean burrowed into them, pulling them tight around his thin limbs. Unable to stop himself, hoping that Castiel did not see, he nuzzled at the thick nobby wool of Castiel's scarf, inhaling the musky smell that permeated it, a sweet hint of chamomile making a heady combination.

My mother used to put sprigs of herbs in our drawers to freshen our clothing, drown out the smell of waste the washwater inevitably left behind.

I don't want to remember.

I don't want to be Dean Winchester.

I am no one but the Sin Eater. I am nothing but the Sin Eater.

Wide-eyed, confused, Dean watched Castiel leave the cabin and return moments later with a bucket of pristine water. No local pump produced such clean liquid. And it was warm. Dizzy with thirst, Dean jammed his face against the top of the bucket and guzzled water desperately. The heat of it spread throughout his body gloriously. Dean would have loved it, except he knew that once the warmth dissipated he'd feel the cold even more acutely.

Enjoy it while I can.

Am I allowed to do that?

When Dean looked up from drinking, paused to breathe, Castiel stood in the doorway, affixing a new piece of cloth to the top of the doorway, hammer making a dull thud at every strike against a nail, entire edifice shaking and rattling at the blows. The interior of the hovel seemed warmer than Dean remembered, and an icy wind blew in and drew tears out of Dean's stinging eyes. There was no other reason for the tears. None at all.

"You don't have to…" Dean trailed off as Castiel looked up at him. Without his winter clothing on, he looked slimmer, though still grown, still strong, still broad-shouldered. The exposed skin of his lower arms and neck was bumped from the cold, his eyes gathered the light and reflected blue, and his lips were quirked in a faint smile. He wasn't holding a hammer. Dean hadn't a guess what Castiel had used to drive the nails in. It didn't matter, he supposed, as long as the blanket stayed in place. As long as no other loving, caring member of Lawrence society decided that Dean had overstepped his place and tore the blanket down, broke the new bucket, stole the food, pissed in the water, ripped the clothes from Dean's back.

All had happened to him before.

All had happened to him many times before. More than he could count. More than he could remember.

How long have I been here?

It doesn't matter. I can never leave.

I should give him back his coat. He's cold.

The thought was loud in his head but Dean's body refused to act, his hands instead grasping the edges of the jacket and tugging it more snuggly around his body. Castiel gave him an encouraging smile.

"I'll fetch more water," said Castiel, oblivious to the disorder he'd thrown Dean into.

In that moment, Dean hated him.

Castiel returned with a bucket of inexplicably steaming hot water. He set it down on the ground beside where Dean sat, rifled through the pile of things he'd brought and offered Dean a small square of cloth. Dean stared at it blankly, then up at Castiel.

"Towel?"

"Oh."

"I'll give you some privacy, and make sure no one comes in," Castiel said, smile broadening to a grin, thoughts projecting soothing calm, as he swept the new-hung cloth aside and stepped outside.

Dean's eyes never left him. Castiel's hips swayed as he walked, the cloth shifted in the breeze as it fell back into place, and Castiel's boots remained visible, as the cloth ended several inches above the ground. The material of the towel was soft against his hand. Thick grime caked Dean's fingers.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd washed.

With shaking hands, Dean set the cleaning rag down and began the laborious process of removing the rags he wore. The only ones easily taken off were those wrapped around his penis and butt, as he had to take those off to use the bathroom. Everything else was looped around his body to hold the tatters in place, wrapped and re-wrapped, so soaked in filth that the seams had long ago vanished, held in place by the accumulated sweat of years. Frustration built as Dean failed to find his way out of the garments. The water was cooling, Castiel was waiting outside patiently, and Dean wasn't even competent to remove his own clothing. Finally, frustrated, he went to the curtain and swept it to the side. Pain thrilled a warning through his nerves and flared in the tips of his fingers, the only part of him that crossed the line of the doorway.

"Castiel?" Dean asked. Castiel turned instantly, concern and worry on his face. Embarrassment nearly drove Dean back without explaining himself.

"Yes?"

"Do ya think…maybe…could you help me?" mumbled Dean. Castiel quirked his head and frowned. "Never mind. I—"

"Of course," said Castiel. He stepped within. "What may I do for you, Dean?" Shame choked the words off unsaid. Dean hung his head. Castiel's frown deepened. Here it comes… "The water has grown cold." A burst of heat issued from the top of the bucket and steam roiled and coiled away from the liquid.

"What…? How…?" Dean shook his head. "No, it was fine. I shouldn't have…I'm sorry, I…"

"Dean," Castiel said harshly. Dean flinched. "I'm not angry. I'm not inconvenienced. Tell me what you need. Please."

Battling his mortification, Dean whispered, "I can't take my clothing off." Castiel blinked at him and laughed, and Dean flinched again.

"I'm sorry – I didn't mean…" Castiel shook his head. "Don't be embarrassed. This isn't your fault. None of this is your fault. And I truly am happy to help. Here, let me try."

For several minutes, Castiel fought with the layered rags as Dean had, but he too gave up with a helpless laugh. His hands had grown browned and dirty from his efforts, and Dean tried not to look, tried not to think.

Stop him. This isn't real. I can't let him soil himself. He should leave. Why is he here? What does he want? This can't be real. Stop him.

"…?" Castiel had spoken to him, Dean realized belatedly, gazing at him as if expecting an answer. "Dean?"

Why am I fighting this so hard?

"Did you hear me?"

Why am I arguing, resisting, ashamed?

"May I use the razor to cut away the cloth?"

I have accepted without question so much rancor, so much violence, so much humiliation.

"I'll be careful, but I fear these garments are unsalvageable."

All Castiel seeks to do is touch me, aid me, succor me.

"Is that alright?"

Why is that my breaking point?

"Dean?"

Why is that one act of violence too far?

"I fear my enthusiasm has pushed you too hard, too fast. I'm sorry. There's no call to do anything you don't wish to do simply to oblige me."

Kindness towards me is an act of violence, a promise of better things to come that can never be delivered on.

"Cut it away," said Dean quietly. "Cut everything away."

This is how it feels to be broken.

It took an hour to clean the accumulated filth of years from Dean's body. The razor made short work of the cloth encasing Dean's body and Castiel stripped away the layers as easily as he'd stripped away Dean's defenses. When the last shreds of fabric fell away, Castiel offered to step away and give Dean privacy. Unbelievably exposed, temporarily impervious to the cold, unashamed of his nudity, Dean couldn't find the words to ask Castiel to stay, couldn't find the words to ask yet more of the strange man who kept giving as if Dean was someone worthy of receiving. Reading Dean's reluctance, Castiel gently guided Dean through a series of questions, coaxed Dean into admitting that he wanted help scrubbing his damaged, painful skin, and then used the soft cloth and the gloriously warm water to create Dean anew.

There were places where Dean's skin was so damaged it sloughed off under gentle scrubbing, water removing dirt and flesh alike. There were places where open sores broke and bled, dirt and scab indistinguishable as Castiel attempted to clean him. There were places where dry flakes of skin fell away when a hand ran over his flesh, a thin snow that drifted to the floor. Castiel's expression remained studied, neutral, and his thoughts maintained a constant veneer of reassurance and support unlike anything Dean had sensed in the years since Lady Sands' blood first enhanced his telepathic abilities. When the last of the water dripped clean from Dean's skin, when Castiel had refilled and somehow heated the water for the dozenth time, Castiel sat Dean down on his knees, placed a finger beneath his chin to tilt Dean's head towards the fading light of afternoon, and used the razor to shave the scratchy, scraggly hairs from Dean's face.

"You're so young," breathed Castiel, wonder and horror in equal parts in his voice. "How old – how long – no. I'm sorry. It's none of my business."

"I'd tell you if I knew the answers," Dean whispered. Solemnly, Castiel offered Dean the replacement clothes he'd brought. None were new, all were worn, and none were well made. In each selection, Dean saw how sensible and wise Castiel was. Castiel could have bought him nice clothes. He could clearly spare the money, and as incredible and inexplicable as Dean found it, Castiel cared enough to go to the trouble and expense. Yet, he hadn't done so. Somehow, he'd intuited that anything nice Dean was given would be taken away, but by buying him regular things, Dean at least had a chance of retaining them.

At least, Dean chose to interpret Castiel's clothing selection as such. He didn't risk asking and having the pleasant fantasy disrupted.

"Do you have any family?" Castiel asked. Pointlessly, Castiel turned to give Dean privacy as he donned the garments, as if he hadn't scrubbed dried feces from Dean's pubic hair, hadn't gently worked water between Dean's flaccid penis and foreskin to clean out the accumulated gunk.

"No."

Mama, her eyes averted from me, weeping in Papa's arms as he told me he only had one son. Sammy running after me, asking why I was leaving, asking why Papa had said that. I told him I had no brother. I told him I hated him. He stopped chasing me then. He was too young to understand what I'd become but I'm sure Mama and Papa have since explained it to him. I'll never see any of them again. I never want to see any of them again. I never want any of them to see me like this.

Dean's chest ached.

Castiel didn't pursue the question.

The breeches Castiel had given him were too big, the tunic shirt and jacket hung from his slim shoulders, but Dean didn't complain. He used draw strings to cinch the clothes tighter and luxuriated in the feeling of clean fabric against his clean skin.

"Did you come today to Unburden yourself?" Dean asked, desperate to divert Castiel's intense focus from him.

Turning back to him, Castiel frowned. "I didn't aid you expecting anything in return," he said.

"But you do have sins to confess?"

There was a troubled pause, then, "yes."

Relief nearly put Dean on his knees. That Castiel would do much to help him for no reason was unfathomable. At least if Castiel had sins to Unburden, Dean had some idea of the ulterior motive behind his kindnesses. The confusion that had left him stunned since Castiel's arrival faded, his head cleared, as events settled into a pattern he was familiar with. Righting his table and kneeling behind it, Dean retrieved his worn, chipped bowl, and solemnly held it out to Castiel.

For long moments, Castiel stared. His thoughts read as blank. Finally, he settled on his knees opposite Dean and produced a bottle of fresh milk and a half dozen unblemished apples from the bucket of goods he'd brought.

I bet he has some truly terrible sin to confess. That's why he's done so much for me.

Dean set the bowl aside and offered Castiel his hands. Castiel's eyes slid shut as he slipped warm fingers into Dean's clean, bare palms.

A vision burst instantly into stunning, all-encompassing reality. Intense pleasure, disconnected from reality, bombarded Dean as he made love to a young woman. Sexual sins always made him uncomfortable. He'd never been with a woman or a man, had never desired to be with a woman or a man, but in doing his duties as Sin Eater he had lain with men and women, as a man and as a woman, uncountable times. His perception of those events mirrored that of those who had actually engaged in them, and so he could remember with equal clarity lying in secret with a man he loved, cheating on a spouse, and raping a young woman. When he'd first started as Sin Eater, reliving the sexual encounters of others had sometimes aroused him, but he'd never felt comfortable acting on that, and it had been years now since he'd experienced an erection, years since desire had stirred in his gut, years since he'd thought himself capable of any form of intimacy, physical and mental, with another person.

Castiel was different.

Castiel had shattered the divide between the sinner's perception of pleasure and Dean's perception of pleasure.

Experiencing sexual contact with the young woman through Castiel's eyes, Dean didn't feel aroused.

"Two nights ago, I made love to a servant girl and pretended that I cared for her," Castiel intoned.

Dean felt angry, bitter, lonely. He felt like an intruder. He did not want to know that Castiel had enjoyed lying in the arms of the woman.

"I didn't, though," said Castiel. "My work frequently requires such actions from me, but I always feel bad, always feel like I've taken advantage of what has been offered to me willingly by my partner."

With a jolt, Dean realized that what he felt, as he relived Castiel's hips thrusting his cock deep into the woman's vagina, as he relived her breathy, soft moans and felt hot breath moistening his skin, was jealousy.

Why?

"I can't do what I must while burdened with this guilt."

Resisting the urge to strike the entire memory from Castiel's mind, Dean continued his dual role as participant and observer. The woman climaxed, back arching, legs wrapped around Castiel's hips working to push Castiel into her body, and Dean waited with dread for the finale of the memory. It didn't come. Castiel didn't come. Instead, with her satisfied, he stopped. The woman truly held no interest to him whatsoever.

She was simply a means to an end, Castiel's voice whispered heartlessly.

Castiel took no action that wasn't calculated.

Am I also a means to an end? What end? I have nothing of any value to offer. But he must have a reason.

With hardly a thought, Dean excised Castiel's guilt, took it upon himself. The jolt of pain that came from activating his telepathy was welcome. After so much kindness, Dean felt false, wrong. The pain grounded him, reminded him of who he was, why he was, and what he actually deserved.

"Thank you for your offering," Dean whispered. "You are Unburdened."

"Thank you, Dean." Castiel rose and stepped to the new curtain, but he paused, one hand resting on the wood of the door frame, features macabrely lit by the glow of Dean's containment symbol. "Would it be too much of an imposition if I stopped by tomorrow?"

Yes, please, that would be wonderful.

"It is my duty to be available at all times to help the people of Lawrence bear the burdens of existence," recited Dean.

No. I never want to see you again.

"Not to Unburden myself. To check on you."

It was clear when I was in his mind that he does nothing without reason.

"I'm not a child, Castiel," said Dean. "I can take care of myself."

There must be something he seeks by helping me.

"Of course you can. But that doesn't mean you should have to. I won't come if you'd prefer I not, though."

The thought was strangely comforting.

"It's fine. Come or don't come. I don't care."

Dean did care. He wanted Castiel to come. He wanted Castiel to care. He wanted to be able to help Castiel, to be useful to someone for something other than his demon-granted telepathy.

"I'll see you then."

Castiel turned and left.

As Dean had feared, the cabin felt desolate in Castiel's absence.

Once Castiel was done using Dean, he'd leave and never return. Dean mustn't let the short term care and companionship damage his ability to deal with the harsh realities of his solitary life.

But at least he was clean, and warm, and clothed. At least he had a new bucket. At least someone cared enough, for whatever reason, to come to the Sin Eater two days in a row.

No, whatever Dean suspected about Castiel, he was certain of one thing:

Castiel was coming to see Dean two days in a row.

Comforted, warmed through, Dean curled into the corner of his hut, wrapped his warm jacket around his knees, and stared contemplatively at his door, occasionally brushing his hand over his clean shaven cheek and remembering fondly how nice Castiel's fingers had felt against his skin.

Perhaps, for once, winter would not be so bleak.

Endnote: I've got no idea when I'll next update this. It might actually be pretty soon, but don't be shocked if it's not.

For progress updates, fanart, and more, follow me on Tumblr at unforth-ninawaters dot tumblr dot com..